


Where I go / I take a little piece of you

by Aaronlisa



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaronlisa/pseuds/Aaronlisa
Summary: Francis struggles with the weight of the past.
Relationships: Camilla Macaulay/Charles Macaulay, Francis Abernathy/Charles Macaulay, Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Where I go / I take a little piece of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babble/gifts).



> This story is told in a series of flashbacks while Francis reminisces about the events of the novel in the present. In the fic, the novel was written by Richard. There is also a brief, non-spoiler mention of The Goldfinch novel. If you've read the novel, chances are you will recognize it. If you didn't, then it's okay as you don't need to be familiar with that novel to understand what's happening. It's not really a crossover or anything of the like. As well, the title comes from Soft Cell's song "Memorabilia." I also probably went a little heavy-handed with the warnings and rating but I figured it'd be better to be safe than sorry.

He's not the sort of man who lives in the past or collects mementos of it. The few things that he has to signify any major life event in his life have been collected and preserved by his wife. Overall, he prefers to live in the present day in a golden haze of alcohol and pills that keep him floating on an even keel. In public, he'd argue against the term of addict being applied to him but in private, he knows the truth of his own addiction and the need to blot out the past. 

So it is always surprising when he comes across the shoebox filled with the few items that he had decided to keep from his days at Hampden College. When he had filled it, he had thought that he was being so clever to put the few reminders of his forbidden, former life into the box that contained the brand new shoes that would start the rest of his future. It's taken him years to realize that he was nothing more than an overgrown child in short pants pretending to be an adult. There was nothing clever or ironic about it. 

He knows that his wife has come to despise the ratty old cardboard box just as much as she's come to despise his short-lived academic career as a student at Hampden. It's the one thing that she nags him about. At first her nagging had been focused on what was the need to keep anything from Hampden when he never actually graduated from college? And why would he want to keep something that would only serve to remind him of a dark and depressing time in his life. 

When she had come to realize that whilst he may agree with her that keeping the few pieces of ephemera really didn't serve any purpose but he was loathe to get rid of the items nonetheless, her nagging had turned towards properly storing or showcasing the items. She'd be happy if he at the very least stuck the contents of it in a storage box that an interior designer would approve of instead of a banged up and dated cardboard box. It's the one and only thing that his wife ever nags him about and he'd like to make her happy but he's never really wanted to go through that shoebox much less stick the contents in an attractive box. 

It's no longer about being clever or ironic or some other such nonsense. He's not even sure why he's kept the box and it's contents for so long. He has no desire to go rooting through it. He doubts he ever will. The easy thing to do would be to give it to his wife to see if there's anything worth keeping and toss the rest. Or even better, just to toss the whole box and be done with it. 

But the box has always felt like a millstone around his neck. And to throw it out seems sacrilegious. His wife does not nag him very often about the box and when she does, he simply shoves it further and deeper into his closet in the hopes that if it is out of site, it'll be out of mind. At least, _her_ mind since he can never seem to forget about the box and what it represents. 

* * * 

Francis Abernathy should really be dressing for an engagement party for some cousin or other - one that he has no real desire to go to but one that Priscilla has ordered him to go to in her place as she is out of town on pressing business. He'll go because it's expected that he make an appearance. And because Priscilla doesn't expect much out of him. She's content to let him live his own life as long as he keeps it private and attends the functions she needs him to attend. For the most part over the years, he has kept his private life extremely private and he's always done what his wife has asked of him. 

However, he pauses in his dress and he pulls out the box with his memorabilia. And he's not sure why. His wife hasn't brought up the box in ages and there's been nothing to bring Hampden to mind but he feels the need to sort through the box. Some sort of nostalgia makes him curious as to what he had considered important and worthwhile to keep so many years ago. 

For a brief moment, he feels a little bit like Pandora opening a box - even though in the original text, she had opened a jar and not a box - and he half-expects all sorts of unpleasant things to come flying out. But it's just a box and he's not Pandora by any stretch . He can almost hear Henry's sardonic chuckle in his ear, laughing at him for being so over the top. 

Although he likes to pretend he's not opened the box since he put items in it, the truth of the matter is that he's opened it before. Several times, always with the thought that _today will be the day_ and that he will finally close the chapter on that part of his life by throwing out the contents. But then something invariably overwhelms him and he shoves the lid back on the box and hastily puts it away. 

There has only been one other time that he had added something to the box and that was a short time after Richard's despicable book had come out in paperback. The book had been published under the guise of fiction with just enough things changed to prevent a law suit against him. Despite loathing the book - and Richard for having had the nerve to both write it and publish it - Francis had been unable to let it go. So in the box it had gone. 

He lifts the lid up and sets beside him on his bed. He breathes in deeply of the scent of the items. There's really not much of a scent but he can imagine that he can smell a faint trace of Camilla's perfume mixed with Bunny's cologne. (Camilla's perfume was a delicate floral with a hint of citrus whereas Bunny's cologne was one that was strong with hints of cedar, bergamot and musk.) He can also detect the scent of gin and stale cigarette smoke. In reality, Francis is well aware that it's nothing more than the product of his imagination and longing. He closes his eyes and he's almost there, back at Hampden, with all of them - even Bunny and Richard. 

* * * 

"How very clever of you?" Camilla icily says. 

The look she gives him is one of accusation and he feels bad. He really does but what does she expect? 

"What do you want me to do? Turn away from my inheritance?" 

"It always comes down to money, doesn't it?" 

He wants to grab her by the arms and give her a good shake in the hopes that it will knock some sense into her. What does she really want him to do? Of course, it comes down to the money. And it's time for her to grow up and put away any childish dreams she may still be harbouring. If he doesn't marry Priscilla, whom he somewhat likes and respect, then it'll be just someone else for him. 

"I don't know what you want from me anymore," Francis flatly tells her. 

He doesn't need to tell that he's not Henry, they both know that.

Camilla softly sighs and turns away from him. Even though they both know that whatever it is that the group of them had is over now, it still hurts. 

"I don't think I know anymore either," Camilla quietly tells him.

He looks at her as she turns again, her eyes shining with tears. And for the first time, it dawns on him that she's wearing dark clothes for the first time since he's known her. Her skirt is black and the silky blouse is charcoal grey. Her bright blonde hair is dull and tied up in a bun. And although her skin is pale as it always is, he notices the shadows underneath her eyes. Not for the first time, he wonders why they ever said yes to Henry's crazy idea of trying to have a true bacchanal. 

Camilla moves closer towards him and he wonders when she had changed form the bright young woman dressed in pale colours that did more for her skin and hair. The dark, drab colours make her look mousy. She leans forwards and presses a chaste kiss against his lips. 

"Do you ever wish that we'd just said no to Henry?" 

He doesn't have to clarify what it is that he's specifically asking about. She knows and she gives him a rueful smile when she answers him. 

"Do you?" 

He thinks on it for a moment before shaking his head in denial. Even now, after everything that's happened, he can't imagine saying no to Henry. It just wasn't done. It goes unasked between them if either of them ever regret meeting Henry and befriending him. Francis doesn't ask because he's afraid to have to tell her his answer, which even now he doesn't really know the truth of it. 

* * * 

At the very top, is Richard's novel. He can recall first hearing about the novel from his lover at the time who had heard it from a friend of a friend who had gone to Hampden College. It was never quite clear who the supposed friend was but Francis is pretty sure that he probably knew them in passing at least since the class size was so small. 

The book had been published just before the digital age had taken off so no one really knew at first what the book was about. Just that Richard had published a book. Francis' lover had told him over lunch in a dimly lit bar one day that he had heard a rumour that a former classmate of Francis' had published a novel. 

At the time, Francis had no desire to seek it out. He had said his final goodbye to Richard a few years back. If he was honest with himself - something that Francis rarely was in the early 1990s - he felt a little bit of jealousy that Richard had managed to do something so determined such as writing a novel and then getting it published. 

* * * 

"I heard from a friend that a Mr. Richard Papen has just published a novel - his first - and that you might be interested in it." 

The name is like a blow to his stomach, Francis pushes his plate of food away, no longer hungry. Instead, he pulls out a cigarette from his near empty pack and lights it with the engraved gold lighter that Priscilla had gifted him a few years back. He takes a few drags off of the cigarette, the nicotine calms him down. He drains his glass of whiskey and signals to the bartender that he wants another one. He can see how pale he's gone in the mirror above the bar. 

"How fascinating," Francis replies in a voice that indicates how he finds it anything but. 

His lunch companion - one of a string of lovers that Francis has kept over the years since his marriage - shrugs his shoulders. And nothing appears to be amiss except for the fact that everything tastes like ash. He spends the rest of their lunch smoking cigarette after cigarette and drinking glass after glass of very expensive whiskey. Priscilla will be upset when she sees the credit card bill for it. (Their agreement was that he'd always use protection and that he'd always be discreet And a $300 lunch is anything but discreet.) 

In the end, after lunch - but before they can take things to his companion's apartment - Francis ends things with his lover. He prefers the men that he occasionally sleeps with on a semi-regular basis to have no connection to him or to his family. Or at the very least, if they do have some sort of connection, to keep silent about it. The last thing he needs is for word of his affairs to interfere with his real life. 

When he's in the cab on the way back to the apartment that he and Priscilla call home, he will realize that the man he had been seeing could have been a twin to Henry. The dark-framed glasses, pale skin, and dark hair. Francis shudders as he had never found Henry sexual appealing in the past and it makes no sense that he'd find someone who looks like him appealing. As he stares out of the window onto a rainy and grey New York, Francis tries to figure out what it all means. _If it even means anything at all._

* * * 

Richard's novel is a paperback copy. The soft cover is slightly torn and the book itself looks rather battered, as if it had seen better days. He's certain that if it had been any other book, he'd have discarded this battered copy in favour of a more pristine one. Francis picks it up and he expects to feel something but in the end, it's just a book. 

He half-heartedly flips through the pages and he can see the notes that his wife had made in the margins and the passages that she had either underlined or highlighted. The red ink of her notes is still sharp after all of these years but the yellow highlighter has faded from a bright neon yellow to a pale yellow. The book looks like it belongs to an English Major rather than an adult man. 

He can still recall when his wife had come home and all but thrown the book at him. It was the only time in their ten year marriage, that he'd seen any real emotion from her. And her rage had made him want her for the very first time. He hadn't acted on the intense feeling. Instead he had gingerly picked up the book and looked at it.

* * * 

The paperback book's cover is done in tasteful shades of cream and black. There is an image of a classical statute with the text on top of it. Richard's name is smaller than the title. And when he turns the book over, the blurb on the back promises a store of intrigue and darkness set in a small college town. How utterly droll. He ad been aware of the novel but he hadn't really cared enough to get his own copy. Francis is surprised that Priscilla has one. 

"What?" Francis simply asks Priscilla. 

"Have you read that filth?" 

Her voice is demanding and she can't see why this book is upsetting her quite as much as it is. He's been aware of the book for about a year or so. It's nothing. But as Priscilla stands before him, her chest heaving with each breathe that she takes as she folds her arms over her chest, Francis starts to wonder if it's really nothing or if it's something else. 

"No, I've not read it."

He tries to figure out if he had ever mentioned Richard to her or to anyone else in his family. He's sure that there were a few articles in the local Hampden paper that had linked him with Richard but he doubts that any of their names - aside from Bunny's and later Henry's - were ever mentioned on a national level. It's not as if he's kept in touch with Richard either. 

"Then I suggest you read it so that we can discuss damage control." 

Priscilla's voice is a strict demand. 

"'Cilla, I can't see why we'd need to do that," Francis dumbly says. 

She looks at him as if she can't believe how stupid he's being. 

"Your former classmate has painted you and your friends as a pack of murderers." 

* * * 

It wasn't as cut and dry as his wife had made it out. Richard had been clever enough to change details such as names, places and events. Hampden was given a different name, they little group were dramatists and Bunny became a girl with the nickname of Buffy. But enough of it had been kept close to the original facts so that if you had gone to Hampden around the time of Bunny's death, that you could read between the lines and recognize it for what it was.

There had been enough of the truth it in it to cause Bunny's mother to call Francis and make some serious accusations while she sobbed on the telephone line. It had taken every ounce of his charm to convince her that it was nothing more than fevered imagination. He had also made several derogatory remarks about Richard as a person and his impoverished background. The snob in Bunny's mother - who still had aspirations of becoming a matriarch similar to Rose Kennedy - had eaten it all up. 

After her frantic phone call, Francis had lied awake in the guest bedroom - as his wife had been too angry to let him sleep in the master bedroom - and wondered why Mrs. Corcoran would telephone one of her son's supposed killers for the truth. Even in the depths of his drinking binge, Francis would wonder that over and over. 

His wife had been furious with him. Francis would later discover that Priscilla Abernathy was a far colder woman than he had given her credit for. She wasn't angry that her husband may or may not have killed someone. No, she was angry that he had been gone about it in such a stupid manner. Before she had eventually forgiven him for _his youthful indiscretions_ , as she termed it, she had dragged him to a very discreet and very expensive lawyer to discuss several legal aspects about Richard's book. 

At that point, Francis was beyond caring about the book. It was what it was. Part of him hated Richard for having the nerve to make everything fresh in his mind. Francis took to numbing himself with as much alcohol and as many pills that he could. And another part hated Richard for being clever enough to own the narrative. When Priscilla had brought him to the lawyer, she had warned him to be as sober as he could be, and he thought that it would be largely to discuss a libel lawsuit against Richard. And although that had been part of the reason for the visit, Francis was shocked to find out that it wasn't the sole reason. 

* * * 

"What are the chances that something like this could re-open any investigation against my husband?" 

Her voice was clam and firm but her question jarred him out of the comfortable chemical haze that he had been drowning in.

"What 'Cilla?" Francis had mumbled. 

She had given him a dark look that had silenced him. The lawyer had sat there across from them and looked at him. Francis could feel the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. This time Henry wasn't there to save him. He wanted nothing more than to find Richard and to punch him the face for making a mess of his comfortable life. Finally, the lawyer steepled his hands together and spoke in a moderate tone of voice.

"Mr. Abernathy, I am not going to ask you about your guilt in this matter as I find that your guilt or lack of it, has very little to do with what is actually at stake here. Do you think that there'd be any interest in opening this case again?" 

Francis sighed and scrubbed at his face. He wants nothing more than to find a seedy dive bar and to get drunk. Maybe even find some boy to lose himself in. He suspects that even his own lawyer feels that he is guilty. (The fact that he is really has no bearing on how he feels.) 

"I spoke to Bunny's mother, Mrs. Corcoran, a while back and she was rather upset about the novel but I told her that it was load of rubbish. I hinted that Richard had been pretty coked up at the time and had never been the type of person to have any class." 

"And do you think that Mrs. Corcoran was satisfied with that explanation?" 

Francis snorts in response. Of course, she wasn't happy about it. Who would have been? But the fact of the matter was rather simple, she either accept the book as a piece of trash written by a low-class coke head who saw nothing wrong in tarnishing the reputations of a bunch of good kids who had taken him into their circle of privilege or she accepted Richard's novel as truth. And even if she only accepted Richard's novel as being partially true, then she'd have to accept that Bunny was nothing more than a loud-mouth, racist, and boorish mooch who took great delight in using people. Bunny had had his chance to do good but instead he had wanted to profit off of his so-called friends and their misfortune. The one thing that Richard had gotten right in his book was his portrayal of Bunny, even if he had made Bunny a girl. 

Before he can say anything, Priscilla is speaking for him. Her tone is polite and gentle. 

"I think that what Francis is implying is that Bunny's mother accepted his response but the fact remains the same, her son is dead and this Papen fellow decided to profit off of that tragedy." 

"And what of Hampden College?" 

Priscilla takes control of the conversation and Francis feels like a small child. He's grateful for her but at the same time, it makes him look like an incompetent addict. 

"Francis' grandfather made a sizeable contribution to the college after Francis and I married. And our family continues to donate to the college annually. I think that they will be more than content to let things be." 

Francis was unaware of any donations made to the college. After the scandal, his grandfather had nothing pleasant to say about the college. 

"I've put a few feelers out to the police in the area and have determined that they have neither the time nor the resources to re-open the case. In fact, there are some who feel that if it was a murder, then Mr. Corcoran's murderer committed suicide, leaving them with a tidy open and shut case." 

"And what of us taking legal action against this Papen fellow?" Priscilla asked. 

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Abernathy, I've checked and although one can argue that while there may be some likeness and similarity to both real people and events, at most you'd be looking at a lengthy lawsuit with no guarantee of winning. I'd suggest you ignore it all." 

"Very well," Priscilla icily says.

"I'm very sorry Mrs. Abernathy but unless anything changes, I truly feel that a lawsuit against Mr. Papen would just make the novel more sensational and would continue to smear your husband's reputation. Ignore it and I am certain it will blow over." 

He can tell Priscilla is furious as he follows her out of the office and into the elevator like a puppy dog. When the elevator doors close and it's just them in elevator she turns to him. 

"I think we need to have a baby," Priscilla tells him. 

"Don't you think you're over-reacting?" 

"Daddy has asked me if you're a homosexual and has hinted I should divorce you." 

"Oh," Francis dumbly says. 

"Indeed," Pricilla says. "We'll go to Europe, you can get sober again and I can get pregnant, when we come home all of this will have blown over and Daddy will be placated." 

"'Cilla please, I think that you're still over-reacting. A baby isn't just something that people have." 

"Look here Francis, I've made up my mind," Priscilla tells him. "We're doing this. I've never asked you for anything but we've been married long enough and it's time for you to grow up. I am tired of having to clean up after your indiscretions." 

* * * 

There was nothing left to argue about. Once Priscilla had made up her mind about something, that was that. Francis found it easier to go along with what she wanted instead of trying to fight for something he didn't really care about one way or another. In the end, going to Europe had been a good thing. Although, he doubted that he'd ever truly be sober, he wasn't as messy as he had been before. And Francis adores his daughter. 

Francis knows that his wife would rather have had a son but after two further attempts that had ended in miscarriages, she had stopped speaking of it. Although they are far closer than most of the couples that fill out their social circle, Francis is never quite sure if Priscilla has just accepted it for what it is or if she's heartbroken over it. They're not that close. 

He lives for his daughter and if he had his way, he'd gladly retire to the family compound in upstate New York and raise his daughter but Priscilla won't hear of it. She accuses him of spoiling the girl as it is. Although, he knows that part of it is that he's far too much of a hands on father compared to the rest of their social set. But he loves his daughter and he's changed quite a bit for her. 

He sets the book down on the bed beside the box's lid. And realizes that maybe his wife is right in telling him that it's time to let the past go. The next thing in the box, that he pulls out is an envelope filled with photos. Most of them are slightly blurry Polaroids but there are a few photos taken with a regular camera that are slightly better in quality. 

The first few Polaroids that he pulls out are ones that he and Charles had taken on one of the nights of the many failed bacchanals. They look ridiculous in their bed-sheet togas. In one Charles and Camilla are standing side by side, solemn faces in their white bed-sheet togas and their blonde hair tousled. They look like a pair of faded ghosts. The photo has robbed them of the healthy, pale glow they had in person. 

Another photo is a slightly faded picture of Richard, that girl that always hung around him, and Francis. The girl stands between them, wearing some silly bustier with a tiny mini-skirt. Richard is wearing that out-of-season Brooks Brothers ivory and green jacket that he had favoured before the weather had turned colder. Despite their physical closeness, there's a clear distance between the three of them. 

Francis runs his finger on the image of Richard and he can't help but wonder if Richard still has that jacket somewhere. He flips through more of the photos before he stops on a random Polaroid of Richard and Henry. The image is washed out and blurry. Their faces are wreathed in cigarette smoke and Francis can't recall if this photo is from before or after the bacchanal as their faces are so serious. It's hard to tell because when together, Henry and Richard were always so serious. He can remember a dozen half-whispered conversations between the pair either in the library of his aunts' house or in Henry's apartment. Quite often, they pair would be conversing in a mix of Greek and English. 

He wonders if their closeness was what started the true divide between them all. 

* * * 

"I don't trust him," Charles sulkily tells him as he lays in Francis' bed. 

Francis takes a drag off of his cigarette before passing it back to Charles. He's getting tired of Charles' whining. He really doesn't have too much of an opinion of Richard. He seems pleasant enough but it's clear that he doesn't really fit into their group aside from academically. And it's not even a class or wealth thing. Richard just doesn't belong. However he's tried of Charles ranting about it. 

"Worried he'll fuck Camilla?" 

"Fuck you," Charles replies as he angrily gets out of bed. 

Francis tiredly watches as Charles pulls his pants on. He wonders which way Richard swings. He's getting tired of the tedium of putting up with Charles' tantrums whenever he has an itch to scratch. 

"Calm down Charles, I didn't mean anything by it," Francis finally says. "Richard's just so boring and he wants in our little group ever so badly but you know as much as I do, he doesn't belong."

He's surprised when the apology works on Charles but he doesn't say anything when Charles crawls back into bed. 

"It's bad enough having to deal with Bunny but Richard is just worse," Charles says. 

Sometimes Francis wants to point out that the things Charles despises in other people are the things he hates in himself. He never quite gets around to it but one day he will tell Charles exactly what he thinks of him, 

* * *

Richard had somehow managed to worm his way into the group and it took ages for Francis to realize that it was because Henry had allowed him to do so. Henry had given him a tiny opening and Richard - the opportunist, that he was - had broken through it. Francis was never really angry about Richard joining their little band and he had even once asked about the possibility of bringing Richard into their plans but Henry had balked at the idea and had suggested that maybe once it worked, they could bring him onboard. 

He gazes on another Polaroid, this one slightly sharper but over exposed from the bright sunshine. It's Richard, Camilla and Henry in the skiff on the pond. Bunny had snidely said it was the only Oxford experience that Richard would ever enjoy. And it makes Francis think of how during the daytime, it always seemed as if Camilla, Henry and Richard were grouping off together. Francis doubted that anything had happened between the three, either as a trio or otherwise. And no matter what Richard had wrote in his book about Camilla, he doubts that Richard had ever really lusted after her. 

At the time, he had often thought that they had grouped off together so that Camilla could have some peace from Charles. Their relationship was far darker than what Richard had written in his book. In his book, it's almost an innocent yet titillating breaking of a taboo. But in reality, Charles had been possessive of Camilla to the point of violence. Henry and Richard provided her with protection, whether they knew it or not, as Charles didn't dare cross Henry and Richard was bigger than Charles. A few weeks after Richard had become part of their circle, Camilla had been spinning around in a dress, her skirt had flared up and Richard had seen bruises on her thighs. All it had taken was a drunken rambling about how Richard would kill anyone who'd hurt a girl like Camilla for Charles to ease off. 

Francis was certain nothing happened between the trio. At least, until the bacchanal and then winter break. As he gazes at the photo for a moment longer, he suddenly craves a cigarette and a glass of alcohol. Anything will do. The memories are just too overwhelming. 

* * * 

Francis stubs out the cigarette in the delicate china saucer. 

"What do you mean, he's been living with you over the break? What does he know?" 

"Nothing," Henry's voice is firm and strong. 

"He's not an idiot," Francis spits out as he lights up another cigarette. 

"I know he's not." 

"Then why are you letting him this close? We can't have another situation like Bunny." 

"I doubt that Richard is going to be like Bunny," Henry says with a smirk. 

"And why's that? He's poorer than Bunny and I think he'd just about do anything for money," 

"And what money is there to be had? He knows the twins are as poor as church mice and that your money is all tied up and that I have none. It's not as if there's reward money." 

" Bunny will bleed us dry and now you're letting Richard in on this?" 

"If he finds out, he finds out." 

"How can you be so cavalier about this?" 

"I'm not but I do think Richard figuring things out might be to our benefit." 

"And how's that?" Francis asks. 

"He's far too desperate to belong to sell us out for something as plebeian as money. He already suspects something is off about Bunny and he's not very impressed with him. And I think that if given the right push, then Richard will come up with a solution should Bunny continue with his little game of blackmail. 

Francis takes a long drag off of his cigarette before he stubs it out. He looks at Henry and sees him for the first time and he wonders how much Henry has controlled them all. Before it had never felt like control but now Francis feels as if he's been a puppet dancing to Henry's tune all this time. If he and the others hadn't felt the overwhelming guilt of accidentally killing that farmer, would Henry have pushed them to do more rites? 

And if Henry is suggesting what Francis thinks he is suggesting, he's truly worried. He's not sure how he feels about Richard, but he has grown fond of him, and he doesn't think that Richard deserves to either clean up their mess with Bunny or to take the fall for it just for the sin of wanting to belong. Francis watches as Henry pours him a tea cup full of clear alcohol - he thinks it might be vodka - and he numbly accepts it and drinks it. He wants to throw it in Henry's face but when Henry murmurs that it will fortify him, Francis does what he's told to do. 

Henry gives him a slight smile. He looks like angelic in the dim, hazy lamplight in the shadowy room. 

"Put it out of your mind, Francis, it's not worth stressing over. Let things play out as they must." 

* * * 

The last photo of note is a Polaroid from Bunny's funeral. On the white surface underneath the image, there is an unfamiliar loopy handwriting indicating that it's Richard Papen along with the date. Francis doesn't recognize the handwriting much less know how the photo got into his hands. 

The photo captures so much about the end. It's in the cemetery and Richard looks as grey and washed out as the day was. Francis wonders if any of them really knew that once Bunny was dead, that things would change forever. And they'd never be able to go back to the way things were. 

* * * 

"Francis?" Richard looks at him like he's surprised to see him there. 

Everything's falling apart and Francis can't stand the company of Charles right now. Charles is clearly losing any grip of reality that he had once and Francis is afraid of what will happen when Charles eventually loses it. Henry seems oblivious to all of it or just too wrapped up in Camilla's soft body to care. And Francis can't stand to be alone. But as he takes in Richard's appearance, he wonders if maybe he shouldn't have come. 

Richard looks stoned. And Francis feels jealous. Richard has other friends, he doesn't need any of them,. And then Richard's hand is wrapping around his wrist and he's pulling him into his room. And locking the door. 

"I think I might have some gin laying around here," Richard says. 

But Francis is pulling him closer and kissing him. As pleasant as it would be to drown his sorrows in yet another bottle, Francis feels that they all have relied on some intoxicant or another and that's how they are in this mess. Some hick farmer is dead as is Bunny. And Francis is very sure that they weren't touched by some ancient deity. No matter what Henry asserts. Instead it was just another form of intoxication.

Surprisingly, Richard doesn't push him away as Francis had thought that he would. Still, Francis is careful to let Richard to take the lead, to control where they will go. Francis doesn't really care who takes off who's shirt first or who does what to whom. He just wants to feel another human touching him and not have to worry about that person going off the deep end and hurting him. 

Richard's kiss is clumsy and awkward at first. But he then relaxes into it. His hands slowly unbutton Francis shirt before Richard pulls back. He helps Francis out of his coat and shirt. Richard presses a kiss on the skin above where Francis' heart is beating fast. 

"Are you sure?" Francis whispers. Afraid that he'll ruin the moment. 

Richard falls to his knees with a murmured assent and Francis closes his eyes as he loses himself to sensation and pleasure. In the end, when they are wrapped around another in Richard's small single bed, Francis' mind is blissfully blank for a few moments. 

Even as Richard slips into slumber, Francis knows that this is a one-time thing. No doubt, there will come a time when he will get an invite to Richard's wedding to some girl like that Julie or Judy girl that's always sniffing around him. Richard may not have a grandfather forcing him to marry but his poor upbringing in small town America has made him squeamish about his sexuality. 

And even if he wasn't, Francis knows it wouldn't last. He can sense that the end is rapidly approaching for all of them. How things will play out, he's not sure. Before coming to Richard's dorm room, he had spoken to his Grandfather and had agreed at last to marry Priscilla. With their family's combined wealth, a degree in the Classics or really anything is hardly necessary. And as his Grandfather has told him, there are enough colleges that he can obtain a degree at in New York, if he still wishes to pursue. Although his grandfather's voice had been stern enough for Francis to know that it wasn't what his grandfather expected of him. 

Francis sighs in the scent of Richard as he tries to push all thoughts out. He just wants to live in this moment for a little longer.

* * * 

The rest of the ephemera in the shoebox are things like a menu from Julian's first dinner for them. It's written on a heavy quality paper in black ink. Francis can recognize Henry's hand-lettering. And he can recall the dark blue fountain pen that Henry had preferred. There's a movie ticket that's faded from some festival that he and Charles had gone to. In theory it had been to escape from Bunny. The pair of them had had a darkened balcony to themselves and it had been easy to mess around without fear of Bunny deciding to take in some Swedish Black & White film festival. There's a sheet of paper in Camilla's small handwriting in peacock green. It looks like it was some course work that Julian had given them as there's a paragraph in Latin, Greek and English. 

It's all so mundane. And he hates that his life can be boiled down to such trivia. They were anything but ordinary, even Richard. He was devious enough to capture Henry's eye and interest. Something that not even Julian or Camilla kept for very long. 

Francis shoves everything back in the shoebox and shoves the lid on it before he puts it back in it's hiding hole in his closet. He's not quite ready to get rid of it all. Not even Richard's book of lies. 

* * *

The engagement party is a bore. He has to wonder if Kitsey will marry her betrothed. There's something repulsive about the young man. Something that remind Francis of Bunny and Richard. Although more of Bunny than anyone else. He's come to the realization earlier that he had easily vilified Richard because of the book. His ruminations on the supposedly happy couple vanish when he catches the sight of a somewhat familiar face in the crowd. 

Francis makes his way through the crowd, intent on confirming the identity of that person. It'd not be the first time that he'd thought that he'd come across one of them in a crowd only to be disappointed. As he moves through the crowd, he smiles at certain people, stops to talk to others and drinks glass after glass of icy cold champagne until he's corner his prey. 

"Hello." 

The voice is pleasant and familiar. And it does things to him that he had thought he'd be immune to by now. Francis wants to be snide and rude to him. And maybe if it was still the 1980s, he could be a boorish snob - just like Bunny or Charles would have been had they been in this room - but it's a different time and place. Instead of a verbal greeting, Francis just raises his glass in a silent toast before draining it. 

"Bravo!" Francis says, his words slightly slurred. "You have apparently made it." 

"I suppose that I have." 

He's wearing a suit that is clearly expensive by it's cut and tailoring. Francis wonders if it was hand-made for him or if he bought it off the rack and had it tailored. He reaches out to touch it. His hand landing on the other man's chest on the left side. Francis can feel his heart racing underneath his hand. His former classmate and friend gives him a smile. It's as fake and plastic as anyone else's smile in this crowd. 

When Francis goes to remove his hand, the other man places his hand over Francis' And it feels more real than their brittle smiles at one another had. The moment lasts for a matter of seconds before someone's high pitched laughter interrupts the moment and Richard moves his hand away as does Francis.

"It has been a very long time," Francis says. "Forgive me." 

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" Richard quietly asks. 

"Why did you write _that_ trash?" 

"I could give you several different reasons but I don't think you'd care for any of them." 

"I'd settle for the truth."

Richard shrugs in response. "The truth doesn't really matter. What was true twenty years ago isn't anymore." 

Another waiter comes by and Francis puts his empty glass on the tray and takes down two new ones. He hands one to Richard and keeps the other for himself. There are at least a dozen trite questions that he wants to ask. Questions that would suit the tedious engagement party that they are at. But none of them feel quite right when he tastes them on his tongue before spitting them out. Richard is just as quiet. 

Francis realizes that he had never thought to follow Richard's career after that first book. It seems odd, especially since he had kept a private investigator employed to keep an eye on Charles. The champagne is gone in a blink of eye and it's perhaps why he says what he says. 

"Did you want to leave?" 

Richard merely nods and it's easy for them two of them to slip away. Francis doesn't even bother to ask Richard if he had come with someone else or not. To be honest, he doesn't really care. 

They wind up in the back of a cab, sitting rather close to one another but still far away. Richard rattles off an address to the driver that Francis finds both familiar and foreign. They wind up in a loft in a very prestigious building. If Francis wasn't so drunk, he's certain that he'd appreciate things a little more than he does. 

Everything in the loft looks modern and masculine- leather and chrome with hints of heavy wood. It's also clear to Francis that it's Richard's writing space. There's a messy desk with a laptop along with notebooks, paper and pens. Across of the desk, is a bed with crumpled sheets. For a moment, Francis thinks this must be where Richard brings his lovers. Until he realizes that the bed is rather small for any truly enjoyable activities. 

And then Richard is running a hand through is hair as words come tumbling out of his mouth. 

"I'm not sure why we're here. I never bring anyone here, not even my wife." 

Francis could are less about Richard's married life nor does he want to hear more about it 

"Am I going to end up in your next novel?" 

"Hardly," Richard laughs. "I hate that fucking book." 

Richard walks over to a bar and pulls out a few glasses along with a bottle of whiskey. He pours a few fingers worth into each glass and passes one to Francis. The whiskey bites as he swallows it down. It's clearly not bought for any sort of prestige. And then Francis realizes that the bar only has two bottles. The whiskey that Richard had poured them a drink from and then a bottle of vodka with an expensive label on it. It's not the type of vodka that Francis would think Richard would drink. 

Richard clearly sees where Francis is looking and answers the unasked question. 

"My publisher got that for me a few years ago," Richard says. "I didn't know what to do with it so I brought it here." 

"Why not drink it?" Francis asks. 

"Not much of a drinker anymore," Richard quietly says. "I lost my taste for it when I was in the hospital, recovering from being shot in the abdomen." 

They stand there silently for a whole longer. 

"I never expected Camilla or Charles to visit me but it hurt that you left town without a word." 

"What was there left to say?" Francis asks. "The dream was over."

"I'd hardly refer to it as a dream," Richard says as he drains his glass and then sets it down. "It was a nightmare and you know it."

Francis clumsily shrugs in his shoulders in reply. 

"Why did you bring me here?"

"Where else would I take you? It's not as if I know where you live and I doubt my wife would appreciate me bringing you home and a hotel seems far too impersonal." 

Francis feels that he's lying but doesn't know how to call Richard on it. Something about Richard now makes him miss the young man that Richard was. That young man that was so easy to read. This man in front of now, is a blank page that gives nothing away.

"That doesn't really tell me anything, you could have left me at the party." 

"I could have but I didn't," Richard replies. 

"So what now?" 

Richard chuckles. "I certainly hope that's not how you pick up men nowadays."

Francis wants to be offended but he feels too drunk to care. He shrugs his shoulders in response. He's never had much trouble picking up whomever he wanted to. 

"Get some sleep Francis, we will talk in the morning." 

And then Richard is guiding him towards the bed that smells of Richard and for the first time in a very long time, he feels what can only be described as an honest emotion. Not something that he has had to manufacture to blend in or something he's had to fake. He just feels relief and a sense of contentment as Richard leans over him and helps to take off his shoes. He lets Richard take control like he did once upon a time. 

Before he knows it, he's bare-footed, his belt as been removed, his cuff links are removed and his tie has been removed. Richard has pulled the soft sheet over his body along with a warm blanket. The lights dim and Francis is asleep. 

* * * 

The room is awash in the dim, pearly grey light of early morning before the sun has actually risen. His mouth feels dry and he can already sense the hangover that's about to consume him whole. Maybe looking into that shoebox had been a stupid idea as it's made him reckless and careless. His wife would be disappointed with him. The door to the loft opens and shuts with a quiet click and Francis drags himself into a sitting position. 

"You're awake," Richard says. "I've brought coffee and croissants."

In his hands are the products of successful international coffee chain. For a moment, Francis can't decide who'd hate it more - Henry or Bunny - for how common it is. Once upon a time, coffee used to either be quick and plentiful cups from a local diner or it was a ritual. Now anyone can have a fancy coffee for a few dollars. And Francis feels like he's being haunted by far too many ghosts of the past. Nostalgia had gotten the better part of him. It would have been best if he had ignored seeing Richard at that pretentious engagement party. 

"I put cream and sugar in both," Richard tells him. "I hope you don't mind." 

"Not all," Francis says as he makes his way towards Richards's desk and the coffee. 

"I'd thought about just leaving and letting the doorman lock up but I felt that would be unkind." 

"It's not as if either of us have a history of being kind to one another, do we?" Francis snidely says. 

"I suppose not but it didn't seem appropriate." 

They stand about sipping at their coffee, the croissants go untouched. 

"Why did you write _that_ book anyway?' Francis asks, breaking the silence. 

"I was in that tiny hospital again and the future was unclear. What would I do? Could I stay at Hampden? Did I want to stay? And then Julian came to visit me." 

"I don't believe you," Francis says. 

Richard shrugs. "I didn't really expect to see him but I suspect the college had something to do with it. Probably forced him to collect some of his things and whatnot. Nonetheless, he came."

"And what did he have to say?"

"Very little of import but he suggested that I write down my feelings," Richard says. "I don't think that he expected me to write them down and publish them." 

"He's dead, you know," Francis comments.

Richard ignores the comment and sets his paper coffee cup down on the desk. Francis wants to hurt him, to tell him that Charles as has died and that Camilla is happily married to a woman. The pair are expecting their first child via a surrogate. But something keeps him silent. 

"I never expected to publish it, it was just too raw and too painful. I made a lot of stupid blunders in that book but it launched my career. Before it was, I was alright, publishing short stories and even a few novels under a pseudonym."

"Why did you then? It almost ruined everything? Bunny's mother called me frantic that it was truth." 

Richard laughs but it's without mirth. It's a dark laugh and Francis trembles. 

"Bunny's ghost or memory or whatever it was wouldn't fucking leave me alone." 

Richard turns away from the desk and picks up the bottle of whiskey and pours himself several fingers worth in his glass from last night. He holds the bottle out at Francis, who greedily reaches for it. 

"Everywhere I turned, there was Bunny. I'd see him the oddest places and I was sick of it. I pulled the manuscript out, polished it, made some edits in the hopes that no one would figure it out." 

"Then why did you publish it under your own name?" 

"I was writing Sci-Fi and Horror and my agent thought it'd be best to distance myself from that work and _the_ book. I couldn't come up with a decent pseudonym by the time it went to print to it was published under my name." 

Richard downs his glass and pours himself more. 

"It was Judy Poovey who figured it out," Richard flatly says. "Oh she thought it was a clever _roman a clef_ that dealt with Bunny's senseless death and my grief over it. She never once believed that we'd plotted to murder him. She spread it around and trust me the Hampden police reached out to me." 

Even Francis hadn't known that. His lawyer had reassured him that they'd not bother re-opening the case. 

"In the end, my agent and my lawyer were able to convince them that it was a work of pure fiction that I'd written to find closure. I regret that I didn't burn the damned thing when I'd finished writing it." 

"Why didn't you?" 

Richard shrugs. 

It's not an answer and he doubts that he'll ever get a truthful answer out of Richard about it so he doesn't push for one. Richard turns away from him and looks out the window. The sky is just starting to turn red and gold. 

"We were just children playing at being adults," Richard murmurs. "I've put it aside, moved beyond it, I used that book to make a career for myself. A rather good one but I still come back to that year. I wonder if just one thing had happened differently, if it would have all worked out differently."

Richard turns to face him again. "I don't regret anything, not even Bunny, but I do wonder." 

"I don't," Francis lies. "I never think about it. It's was an unfortunate incident but it doesn't bother me." 

"Let it go, Francis, just leave the past where it belongs." 

It makes Francis angry that Richard, of all people, is preaching to him. What right does he have to act so sanctimonious. Bunny is dead because of him and Henry too. Francis tells him so. 

"How wonderful, two young men are dead because of _you_ and you think we should just let it rest in the past. Do you fuck your wife with a clear conscious?" 

"You misunderstand me Francis," Richard calmly says. "I am not trying to absolve myself of guilt. If I'd been more mature, more rational, and maybe a little less selfish, I would have told you all to go to Julian at the very least, if not the police. But I was jealous of Bunny and what he had so I went along with Henry's only solution to the problem." 

"If it wasn't for Henry, you would never have been in our circle." 

"I often wonder if Henry always intended on killing someone from the start." 

His words shock Francis. How dare he insinuate something like that. 

"As an adult, I can look back and look at Henry and wonder what his motivations were. I often wonder if it wasn't for Camilla, if he would have quietly taken care of Charles." 

Francis' head is aching with the implication. 

"I'm done listening to this rubbish. Henry killed himself to end things. And this is how you treat that sacrifice." 

Richard just looks at Francis and sadly shakes his head. 

"We were all children, playing at being adults, everyone but Henry, at least." 

Francis quickly gets dressed and slams out of the loft. Richard does nothing to stop him and there's a part of him that hurts because of that final betrayal. He desperately wants Richard to follow him to tell him it was all a lie. Yet Richard's words have cut him to the bone, even if Richard doesn't know it. 

* * * 

"I don't understand why he's trying to befriend that Papen fellow," Camilla says. 

Francis watches as she takes a drag off of her cigarette and exhales. He pours her a glass of gin and adds a splash of lime juice before handing it to her. Bunny and Charles are upstairs sleeping. 

"Why does he want to bring him here? It's not as if he's going to invite him to take part in the rite," Camilla says. 

"It does seem odd," Francis says. "Especially since he's already nixed Bunny's participation in the rite."

"Who knows how Henry's mind works," Charles murmurs as he walks into the room. "But we should be careful about what we're talking about. We'd not want Bunny to find out." 

Francis lights up a cigarette and thinks about it. Sometimes he feels that Henry is in the wrong department. He's more like a cold and detached scientist than a genteel scholar of the classics. Even this desire for a bacchanal doesn't seem to be motivated by a desire to call down a god. It's more like Henry wants to see if they can actually do it and what would happen if they did. Sometimes, Francis feels that Henry was born in the wrong time period. Before he can think more on it, Henry is dragging Richard into the library and then Bunny comes tripping down the stairs demanding breakfast. 

Later when everything starts to sour, Francis will think of the moment when they are all in the library and of the cold smile on Henry's face. A cold smile that's akin to a smile on a cat's face when it's eaten the canary. He'll never be sure when he looks back at this moment, if he only imagined the look on Henry's face or if it was real as the cold smirk on Henry's face had only lasted moments before he had asked for a cigarette. 

* * * 

In the end none of it matters much. Henry's insane search for beauty - _true_ beauty as he saw it was something that was alarming and terrifying - was for naught. Bunny, Charles and Henry had all paid the price for a fruitless search. To this day, neither Francis nor Camilla can say what was real about the bacchanal and what was just the product of intoxication near death. 

Every so often, their paths will cross in New York and regardless of whom Francis runs into - Camilla or Richard or sometimes both - the meeting is always cordial but distant. Whatever had bound them together in the past, has let them go in the present. When he looks at Camilla now, he doesn't feel the pain of that distant past. He doesn't picture her how she used to be. He can no longer see the lovely pale blonde girl dressed in all white, trying to be one of the boys but failing. Instead he sees a handsome woman that time has been kind to. When he sees Richard now, he can see him without recalling the site of Henry pulling the trigger with the gun pointed at his head, that maniacal smile carved on his lips before there's a frightful bang and flash.

It's not truly closure because he still aches for who they all used to be but the past doesn't seem quite as present anymore. And at the very least, he doesn't look into a crowd and see ghosts of the past. When he does see Camilla and Richard - not that it's often - it's as they are now, not as they were then. It's not enough - nothing ever will be unless he can somehow find his way back to _then_ \- but it will do. 

((END))

**Author's Note:**

> To my recipient Babble, I really hope that you enjoyed this story. I really wanted to write something set during the actual novel but my muse would not co-operate so I wrote something from Francis' POV, exploring his memories of the events.


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